


In Transition

by Alona



Category: The Dalemark Quartet - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 06:30:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14050992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alona/pseuds/Alona
Summary: Early in Amil the Great's reign, change is everywhere.





	In Transition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tanaqui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanaqui/gifts).



Navis closed the file and slid it across the desk to Biffa. "Impeccable, as always. My lady wife may never forgive me for stealing your services away from Adenmouth, but I will say we've done well out of the bargain. But you didn't come and deliver this yourself just to receive my good opinion." 

Biffa nodded, shifting in her seat. It was because she was sure of Navis's good opinion that she had come. "I think you've known I've had something on my mind for a while, Your Grace." 

Navis gave her a thin, ironic smile but did not protest her use of the honorific. When they were talking over the intricacies of constructing Dalemark's new legal code—which was what Biffa had left her position in Adenmouth to help with—Biffa addressed, as Navis occasionally referred to himself, the first bureaucrat in the land; now she had something to say to His Grace the Duke of Kernsburgh, King Amil's chief minister, and they were both glad of an easy way of signaling it. 

"I've noted some emanations, law-woman." 

In fact, Biffa was fairly close to certain the idea she was about to present had been Navis's to begin with. He had managed over the last weeks to suggest it to her so subtly that, had it not appealed to her, there would have been no need to bring it out into the open. Biffa was caught between admiring the delicacy of his maneuvering and being just a touch irritated that he couldn't have asked her straight out. 

Meeting his cool gaze, she said, "Mitt needs to marry. He needs a wife." 

"I agree with you. And that is what has been weighing on your thoughts?" 

Biffa went on as if he hadn't spoken. "First and practically, the royal line has to be assured. There must be an heir. No matter how much Mitt does in his reign, it'll all go to pieces if there isn't a clear line of succession." She paused. "The queen ought to be someone who's prepared to share the work of governing, without being interested in any of the glory, or in a life of ease." 

"Certainly not while the city is still in the hands of the workmen, as it's likely to be for generations to come," Navis said, and though it was a winter afternoon and already growing dark, the diverse sounds of work being done came to them distantly from all directions. 

"She ought to be a Northerner," Biffa continued, "to win over anyone in the North who still distrusts a Southern king, and she can't have to do with any of the earls, to avoid further accusations of favoritism." 

"In fact," said Navis, who was the target of most of the outcry against favoritism, "she should be common-born, but with some mark of distinction, such as a legal education. I agree with your description. Do you have such a woman to suggest?"

For the first time, Biffa felt a stirring of doubt. "I understand," she said, more haltingly than she meant, "if you think Hildy—"

Navis held up a hand to stop her. "Don't be inane. Hildy meets exactly none of your criteria, and you know it. My daughter, if she does marry, will find herself the younger son of a tame lord who will be eternally grateful to her for admitting his family to the crown's good graces. That would suit everyone best." There was more than a hint of bitterness in his voice—his relationship with Hildy was still strained, as Biffa knew only too well. Some of the stiffness went out of his face, and he said, "But that isn't really what you wanted to say. Out with it." 

"Me," said Biffa. "I think that Mitt should marry me. We're friends, and we understand each other." 

For a moment Navis's face beamed with approval, so much that Biffa looked down as her hands resting in her lap. She had been right. 

"I'm glad you agree with me," he was saying. "Why don't we go introduce Mitt to the idea?"

"Now?"

"He's had a long and frustrating day reviewing applications for royal pardons—it should cheer him up." 

In spite of herself Biffa perked up. Mitt had been away personally overseeing an acrimonious dispute in a Southern lordship and had returned only three days ago. They hadn't had a chance to do much more than nod at each other in the passing since his return. 

There were perfectly suitable public rooms in the finished portion of the palace, but for the time being Mitt and Navis kept private studies in one of the rough buildings that had been thrown up during the earliest part of construction. It would come down, Mitt had told her, within the next five years, when the palace proper expanded and the space would be needed for a permanent structure. For the moment it was a good spot, close to the center of action without leaving them too accessible. Navis's study was, though temporary, rich and well-appointed, with a handsome rug slightly too large for the room, a beautiful set of shelves, and a demurely framed watercolor of a stretch of Navis's newly granted lands in the Shield of Oreth, where construction of his residence was already underway. Mitt's study was a mix of sparse practicality and the cheerful clutter of all his notes and plans and samples of new machinery and unframed paintings that would someday fill the palace—and plenty of other things besides. 

They found him at his table, studying a series of architect's drawings with reference to a book at his elbow, opened to a diagram. He jumped up when they entered and came forward grinning. "Biffa! Am I glad to see you!" 

He had grown in the last years; they were practically of a height now. Kingship sat well on him—even tired, he looked more vibrantly alive, almost younger, than he had when she'd first seen him. 

"I'm glad to see you, too," she said sincerely. 

"The young lady and I have been discussing the future of your reign," Navis said. He looked very pleased with himself, which Biffa allowed he had some right to. "Biffa came to me with an excellent and appropriate proposal. I'll leave you two to talk it over." 

"Excellent and appropriate," Mitt repeated. "What have you let me in for this time, Navis?" 

"You may thank me at your leisure." Navis's faint mocking laughter disappeared down the corridor. 

"He still thinks I should be grateful he got the bright idea into his head of making me king," Mitt explained, almost fondly. "Mind you, I'm not saying there's anyone I'd be willing to hand over the job to…" 

"I'm sure Navis knew you well enough that to be counting on that." 

Mitt gave a bark of laughter. "Too right. So what's it to be now? Have we been going at the Code all wrong, or have you found a clever new way we can tax the earls? It wouldn't hurt any." 

"It's not like that," Biffa said quietly. "Not exactly." 

Something in her voice must have given him a hint. Mitt's face grew serious and expectant. "Let's go sit down," he said, waving her over to a corner of the study with a pair of good chairs and a brazier. "I think I'll want to hear this." 

*

"Any chance of getting your brother to show?" 

"No chance," Moril said positively. His newly organized Academy of Music would undertake the musical and ceremonial portions of the wedding. Probably it was unfair of Mitt to invite him to consult on that and then needle him about Dagner, but Mitt did need to know where he stood. 

"It'll have to be the pointed invitation, then," he said, "and we'll have his steward in his place, since you and Brid can hardly represent the family. Dagner'll have to settle down to work sometime, you know." 

"I know. And I've told him so. It isn't that important, is it?"

"Not yet," Mitt said, grimly. The steward of the South Dales had hung on through the upheaval by changing sides at a strategic moment—which wasn't to say that his change of heart had not been sincere, or had not become sincere in the meantime. Only Navis was concerned, and Mitt along with him, that the steward was just a little too competent and a little too popular, and it was high time the recalcitrant Earl of the South Dales accepted his duties. "We'll just have to do without, for now." 

"Focus on the others," Moril advised. "You'll be lucky to get Keril." 

"I don't want him. But," Mitt added, with a resigned wave, "Navis'd take it hard if Keril didn't come trotting whenever I whistled, so we'd better make sure of him." That invitation was already drafted; Navis had taken the responsibility onto himself, and Mitt had to admit that it was clever piece of work. 

There was a drawn and weary look on Moril's face that had become habitual with him. He was thinking of the reason Dagner was Earl of the South Dales, or of Hestefan, or the things they had both seen during the war. Mitt worried about Moril; he took everything so hard, and he was growing up thin and careworn, spending more and more time on his own while his sister handled the bulk of administering the Academy of Music. Mitt needed him, and needed him sane and well, and he was never sure if anything he said or did would help. 

"It's just one more thing on top of all the rest," Mitt said, trying to make it into a joke. "You wouldn't believe how much work there is, even after I'd talked Navis down to something reasonable! Making sure we put every earl and lord in his proper place, designing a ceremony to acknowledge the traditions of the North and the South equally, getting the word out—and I've had to alter some of the plans for the ballroom so it'll be ready in time. What wines to serve, and when it's all right to serve wine, even, and what to wear—all of it's important. Like anything Navis takes in hand it's all beautifully well-run, of course, and I've almost been enjoying it—right until I remember it's my own flaming wedding I'm putting together!" 

"You're nervous," Moril observed. 

"Petrified," Mitt admitted, though he hadn't meant to. "Look, why don't you go ahead and ask me already?"

Moril put his head to one side solemnly. "Should I?"

Temporizing, Mitt went on, "It's still so much fuss and pomp. I can't get used to it. I keep waiting for Biffa to look at it all and change her mind." He threw up his hands. "And it's _Biffa_. I _like_ her. I don't want her hurt." 

It had all come together so quickly and naturally that even the shock had taken time to penetrate. He'd listened to all of Navis and Biffa's reasons in favor of the match, and he'd agreed that they were good and well-reasoned. He certainly did not dislike the idea of marrying Biffa, who had been a mainstay of stability and good sense for years. He liked being around her. There was no one at court he would rather marry. So he'd let their arguments be his arguments, repeating them to himself and—selectively—to anyone who asked for them, until he no longer knew where he stood, really. He'd had some idea that talking it over with Moril would clear it up. Moril had even less patience these days for self-deception and emotional conundrums. Now he was reluctant to get into the meat of it. He wasn't even sure Moril would understand. 

Moril had been looking distant and thoughtful. Surfacing, he said pointedly, "What have you told her about Noreth—Maewen?" 

That was a telling slip. They did not speak of her often, but Mitt had the impression that Moril, who had hardly met the real Noreth, still thought of Maewen that way; Mitt never did. 

"Everything," Mitt said. "Nearly everything. It wouldn't feel right, otherwise. She knew most of it already, but. Better she hear it from me." 

"Does she know how you feel about it now? Do _you_?"

"I thought I did, before. Now? I don't know. It's not so tidy now. I was fine with marrying because it was a duty—it was something I thought about, early on, once I'd stopped waiting for Maewen to come back—but this is different. It's all muddled." 

"Because the reasons are all there with Biffa, but it isn't just duty, and you don't want it to be. Which of them do you feel you're betraying?"

"I don't know!" Mitt bellowed, then stared at Moril, feeling winded. He couldn't even complain; this was just the sort of clear-sighted directness he had been counting it. It served him right if it hurt. 

"Biffa's very clever, and she's good at arranging things. Somehow I can't see her getting into something if she had serious doubts. The way you've said, it was her idea. You should let her look out for herself. Does that help at all?"

Mitt shook his head slowly. "You know, I think it does. How do you do that?"

Moril shrugged, smiling faintly. "I just repeated back to you what you were saying to me. You just didn't know it." 

"I don't think it's that easy. Look, I've already taken longer than I meant to. They need me at the City Council. I'll think about those songs and let you know." As Moril got up to leave, Mitt, feeling a swell of gratitude and friendliness, added, "Look after yourself, Moril, all right? For my sake, if you won't bother for your own. Come talk to me if there's anything I can do." 

Moril left with reassurances that were none too reassuring. _I'll have to do better than that,_ Mitt thought, gathering up his materials for the City Council distractedly. 

*

"And you've started thinking of your wedding clothes, of course. That will take some doing! You can certainly fill out a gown, my dear!" Chuckling, Lady Eltruda added, "I'll go and see about dinner now."

"The servants can look after it," Hildy said flatly. 

"Oh, no, I don't think so, Hildrida. I'm sure you girls will amuse yourselves while I'm gone!" 

Hildy unlovingly watched her stepmother's plump back out of the room, then turned to Biffa with very little alteration to her expression. The Duchess had invited Biffa and Hildy to spend the day with her, likely at her husband's instigation. She had been trying to leave them all morning, but Hildy was evidently reluctant to be alone with Biffa. Eltruda had made conversation more or less heroically; there had been time for a thorough inquiry into Biffa's work with the Code, an even more thorough canvassing of the latest gossip, and a spat about Hildy's hairstyle (too mature for her, according to Eltruda, and the latest fashion, according to Hildy). This dinner ploy was transparent; Biffa was grateful, anyway. She'd been having no luck cornering Hildy for a private conversation herself. 

"I haven't offered my congratulations," Hildy said stiffly, when Lady Eltruda was unmistakably out of earshot. 

"Thank you," Biffa said. 

"Yes. Well, there's precedent for it, at any rate. These Northern earls often raise up common-born lawyers by marrying them. It's practically respectable. Though it's going a little far, for a king." 

Biffa smiled and tried to keep her insides as smooth and unruffled as her face. She had expected Hildy to take it like this. She thought now she ought to have arranged to tell Hildy about the marriage herself, rather than let her find out from others. 

Hildy was going on. "I hope you know you can always come to me if you start feeling overwhelmed, Biffa. Being an earl's granddaughter does have its advantages, and one of them is being able to navigate court protocol." 

"I know you mean to be kind, Hildy," Biffa said, feeling forlorn. She wished, just this once, that she could be as quick to start a fight as Hildy was. You could hurt a lot of feelings that way, but you could also clear a lot of air. 

Hildy's haughty look developed a crack. Leaning closer to Biffa with wide eyes, she said, "It's not that I _mind_ about you going over to father's side. I've understood for a while now where we all stand." 

It had taken Hildy some time to realize that Biffa had taken her to Ansdale on purpose to keep her safe away from the Lawschool. Despite having more than once waded into battle on Biffa's behalf when she thought Biffa's intelligence had been insulted, Hildy still had not thought her capable of guile. Biffa, when confronted, had admitted to it readily; and though much of their friendship had eventually recovered from the storm of Hildy's rage at being betrayed, the strain still told. Biffa doubted whether they would ever again be as close as they had been during the first year of their friendship, and the knowledge depressed her. 

"It's not about sides, Hildy," Biffa said. "I truly believe this is the best thing for everyone." 

"But marrying Mitt! Even if he _is_ king, he's still—Mitt." Hildy gave a hissing sigh. "I can't understand anything that's happening anymore. No one's behaving like themselves." 

"You could leave court, if it makes you unhappy," Biffa suggested. 

"Leave court?" Lady Eltruda piped, sailing back in. "Our little miss? Never! Where else could Hildrida be half so important? The Holy Isles? Ha! I just needed to pick up a few things, now. Don’t pay me any mind." When she had rummaged in a couple of drawers and picked through a pile of cloth samples, Eltruda exited again, leaving behind her a thick silence. 

"The Holy Isles!" Hildy exploded, after a moment during which she was evidently too insulted to speak. "What does she know? Mitt only made me warden of them to insult me, or for Ynen's sake. Well, they're welcome to run off and play at sailing as much as they like. I never want to see another boat in my life! I really hope they're happy!" 

It was Hildy's quality of taught, unhappy fierceness that had first won her Biffa's loyalty, and this display of temper only roused Biffa's affection for her, despite its targets. "I think Mitt thought you needed somewhere you could go to be away from everything and just—be yourself. The Holy Isles might not be the best place for that, but he did mean well." 

Biffa sincerely believed that was part of it. Mitt had been trying to make something up to Hildy, though Biffa thought it was going about it the wrong way. Hildy was one of those who couldn't really be herself without others watching her. Moreover, his primary motivation had been to keep the valuable Isles in Navis's family, and, yes, to give Ynen an obvious reason to spend most of his time there developing Dalemark's fleet. 

"Of course you'd have to defend him!" Hildy exclaimed, and before Biffa could respond, she added, rather hesitatingly, "You do like him, don't you. Mitt, I mean. Really?" 

"Yes," said Biffa. She might have said more, but this wasn't the time for it. 

"Then I'll try to be happy for you." Hildy tried out a thin but genuine-looking smile. "Even if I don't understand." 

"That's all I wanted," Biffa said, smiling back. From close by she could hear a commotion that signaled Lady Eltruda's return. The rest of the afternoon presented a prospect of defusing fights between Hildy and her stepmother, but Biffa did not particularly mind. Cracked and half-mended as it was, she hadn't lost Hildy's friendship. 

*

"Ynen says Alk's been trying to sell him on the notion of ships with iron hulls. He says they'll be larger, and cheaper to make in the long run, than good old wooden ships. Ynen's still not convinced, but I can feel he's going to give way sooner or later. He's too excited not to." 

"They've already sold you, I can tell," Biffa said. They were standing in the bow of a small ship equipped with a steam engine, one of the first such to actually work, which was taking them on a leisurely tour through the Holy Isles, with the new shipyards as start and end point. Mitt was gazing out to sea as though he could already see the enormous, iron-hulled ships of Dalemark's future fleet out there. She liked that look on him. 

It had been her first time seeing the shipyards. Mitt, on his way back to the capital from yet another trip, had invited her to come out to the Holy Isles to meet him and take in the sights. Biffa had accused him of taking a holiday, and he had freely admitted it. Probably he had reason to need one. 

"How did it go in Holand?" she asked? 

Elbows on the railing, Mitt gave her a sideways look. "All right. The rebuilding is going well. You'd hardly know that just a few years ago—anyway. I saw Siriol—he's been elected for a second term. It was odd, but good, maybe. Better than last time. He said he'll come to the wedding, so we'll have to make up our minds whether a mayor needs different treatment than an earl. Depends how many people we can offend each way." After a pause, he added, "I was that relieved when I left. It's the first time I've been back since I was there to—to deal with Hobin." The last words came out almost in a whisper. 

Biffa knew in a general way what had happened with Hobin, though Mitt had never spoken to her about it. She doubted he spoke to anyone about it, unless it was Navis, who had been there with him. 

She let an interval of silence pass, then said, "I understand the Holand City Council is working on its own code. Are they looking at any sources we haven't considered?" 

"They're coming at it very differently," Mitt said, the grimness sliding off him. "In the South the earls have been the beginning and end of the law for so long that any other tradition has been lost—deliberately buried, in most cases. Their discussions are more like about what an ideal code should look like, to keep it from being abused. There's an old woman came down from Hannart, trained at the Lawschool, who went into the philosophy of law. She wrote to offer her services in arranging the discussions, and there she is, giving them pointers. Anyone in Holand can come in and speak. The noise of it!" He smiled. "That was my favorite part of the visit." 

"Well, if they come up with something better that way, we'll have to incorporate their ideas." 

"You'll have to go down and see it yourself, one day. It's instructive. After the wedding, maybe." Mitt gave himself a shake. He'd got used to referring to the time after the wedding, but the nearness of it had snuck up on him. It was hardly a month away; most of the preparations were in place already. He tried to decide whether Biffa was as struck by the casual mention as he was. 

"I'd like that," she said. 

"I want to leave my heirs with a strong, working Code and a peaceful country to be governed by it." 

"And not very much power, if you can help it," Biffa said, with a touch of slyness in her voice. 

"Who ever said that?" Mitt asked. 

"You didn't have to. Your questions and contributions are piecemeal, but I can put it all together. You're taking powers away from the earldoms to bring them under the crown, but in the long run, you're looking to put controls on the crown's power and bring it all under this new civil service you're building up." 

Mitt laughed with pleasure. Of course Biffa would have seen that. She'd probably had direct contact with more pieces of his plan for the legal system than any other single person, besides hearing him talk about Dalemark's future. "You're right," he said. "I'm timing it so I'll be able to corral the earls and get everything going how I like—and then I'll make sure no other king can come along and break it. Who should know better than me not to trust lines of descent?" 

"Do you think anyone else knows?" 

"Navis must—he usually knows these things before I do, even. He's probably just glad it'll happen long after his time. Everyone else—no, I don't think so. Does it bother you? That I don't trust your—our—heirs?" 

"They don't even exist yet," Biffa said, lowering her eyes in a convincing portrayal of maidenly modesty. "You may be right not to trust them." 

"Well said!" Then, with a qualm: "Listen, Biffa—you're sure about all this, aren't you?" 

"Absolutely. Don't I seem sure?"

"No. I mean, yes, you do!. Flaming Ammet, I just wanted… to check." 

"Well, you have checked. I was sure when I proposed the idea—and, yes—" She let a grin break through. "—it _was_ Navis's idea, but it was my idea, too, so don't start on that one again." 

"Once," Mitt insisted with a snigger. " _Once_ I've said that." 

"It was twice. And, Mitt, I knew what to expect then, just as I know it now. I understand what you want to accomplish—haven't I just been showing that?—and I agree with it. And, personally, I know not to expect… that is… I know you like me, and I'm sure we'll always be great friends…" 

Mitt stood suddenly bolt upright, his cheeks flushed and his expression wondering. "Hey, hold on! Biffa! Honestly, do you think I invited my glorious bride-to-be to take a pleasure cruise through the Holy Isles with me because I think we're going to be—what?— _great friends_?"

Biffa was quiet and thoughtful for a moment, the pink rising in her cheeks. Then she took Mitt's hand in a firm clasp. "That _would_ be a silly thing to think, wouldn't it." 

Then they were both laughing in relief, each setting the other going with a fresh bout when it seemed they might finally have a hold of themselves.


End file.
